Janie squelches a grin. Poorly. “How the hell did you do that?” she demands. His face sobers. “It’s the only way I could think of to get you to talk to me.”

“Okay, I get that. But how did you do it?”

He hesitates. Glances at the clock. Shrugs. “Doesn’t look like I have time to explain right now,” he says.

“When would you like to go out with me so we can talk about it?” A grin flirts with his lips. He’s got her cornered.

And he knows it.

Janie chuckles, defeated. “You are such a bastard.”

“When,” he demands. “I promise, all my heart, I’ll be your house elf for the rest of my life if I fail to meet you at the appointed date and time.” He leans forward. “Promise,” he says again. He holds up two fingers.

The bell rings.

They stand up.

She’s not answering.

He comes around the table toward her and pushes her gently against the wall. Sinks his lips into hers. He tastes like spearmint.

She can’t stop the flipping in her stomach.

He pulls back and touches her cheek, her hair. “When,” he whispers. Urgently.

She clears her throat and blinks. “A-a-after school works for me,” she says.

They grab their backpacks and run. As they slip in the doorway of government class, he shoves a PowerBar in her hand.

She sits at her desk and looks at it. She raises her eyebrow at him, from across the room.

“Protein,” he mouths. He gestures like a weight lifter.

She laughs out loud.

Opens it.

Sneaks bites when the teacher isn’t looking.

It’s not as good as a Snickers.

But it’ll do.

In P.E., they’re playing badminton.

“I’m watching you,” he growls as they change sides. “Don’t you dare sneak out of here without me.”

She flashes him a wicked grin.

After school, Janie exits the locker room and looks around, then heads for the parking lot. He’s standing between their cars. His hair, dripping, has a few tiny icicles attached.

“Aha!” he says when he sees her, as if he’s foiled her escape plans. She rolls her eyes. “Where to, dreamboy?”

Cabel hesitates.

Works his jaw.

“My house,” he says. “You lead the way.”

She freezes. Her stomach churns. “Is…is he…” She swallows hard. He squints in the pale sunlight and reads the question in her voice. “Don’t worry, Janie. He’s dead.”

WHAT BECOMES THE LONGEST DAY

It’s still December 5, 2005

Three o’clock.

Janie pulls into Cabel’s driveway, tentatively. He pulls in behind her and jumps out of the car, grabbing his backpack and closing his car door gently. It clicks perfectly, solid. “I just love that sound,” he says wistfully. “Anyway. Follow me.”

He opens the rickety service door to the garage. It creaks and groans. He flips on the garage light and takes Janie by the hand. The garage is tidy. It smells pleasant, like old grass clippings and gasoline. Next to the door that leads into the house hangs Cabel’s skateboard. Janie smiles and touches it.

“Remember that?” she says. “That was a sweet thing for you to do. I hadn’t exactly planned on walking home that night.”

“How could I forget. You slammed the gymnasium door handle right into my gut.”

“That was you?”

He gives her a patronizing smile. “Indeed.”

They go inside.

The house is tiny. Clean. Threadbare.

She startles when she sees the kitchen. She’s seen this room before, in his dream. The table. And the chairs.

“Jesus,” she says under her breath. She looks up. The ceiling fan is there. “Oh, God.” She turns and looks where the front door would be, where the middle-aged man came in, and it beckons to her. She drops her backpack on the floor, shuts her eyes, and covers her face with her hands. And he’s touching her shoulders.

Wrapping his arms around her.

Stroking her hair.

Whispering, his lips to her ear. “He’s not here. It’s just a dream. That never happened. Never happened.”

And she’s soothed by the words. She breathes him in. Her hands leave her face and find his shoulders, his chest. She touches his chest lightly, wondering if scars lie beneath his shirt. Wonders if that dream really happened. And then he’s kissing her neck and she’s falling, turning her head to find his mouth with her lips, and she’s tracing his jaw with her fingertips and kissing him hard, their tongues tasting each other madly, and he’s pressing into her and she into him, bodies shivering, like they are two scared, lost children, starving, starving to be touched, to be held, by someone, anyone, the first one they can find who seems familiar enough, safe enough, strong enough to rescue them. They breathe, heavy. Hard. Their fingers strain at cotton.

And then they slow down.

Stop. Hold. Rest.

Before one of them, or both, begins to sob.

Before they break another piece that needs to be fixed.

They stand together for a moment, collecting.

And then he finds her fingers and strings them in his, and leads her to the living room.

On the coffee table rests a stack of books.

He looks at Janie. “This is how,” he says, his voice catching. “You know these books now, don’t you.”

“Yes,” she says. She kneels next to the table and lays the dream books out.